Von Igelfeld’s eye passed to the mother. What a beautiful woman she was, he thought, and she was so clearly used to admiration and respect, as she sat with an air of almost palpable authority, speaking to each of her children in turn, occasionally saying something to the governess. ‘Where is father?’ he wondered. Was he still working in some distant city, supporting this expensive family in luxury, or had something terrible happened to him? Certainly the mother did not look like a widow; she was vivacious and carefree, whereas widows, in von Igelfeld’s experience, pace Franz Lehar, never were.
Von Igelfeld buttered a further roll and allowed honey to drip all over it. Then he took another sip of coffee and glanced over at the family’s table again. As he did so, the boy turned his head and looked directly at him. Von Igelfeld dropped his gaze, but he felt that the boy was still staring at him. He concentrated on his roll. Had the honey been evenly spread, or was it too concentrated at the one end? He looked up again and the flaxen-haired boy was still staring in his direction with wide blue, inquisitive eyes. Von Igelfeld fingered at the knot in his tie and turned away. He was accustomed to being stared at, being so tall, but it always made him feel uneasy. The mother should teach him not to stare, he thought; but parents appeared to teach their children nothing these days.
After he had finished his roll, von Igelfeld poured himself another large cup of strong, milky coffee, and drained it with pleasure. The family had arisen from the table now, and was trooping out of the dining room. The boy was the last to go, and as he left he turned and glanced at von Igelfeld, tossing his hair back as he did so. Von Igelfeld frowned, and looked down at his tie. Was there something odd in his dress that made the boy look at him? Did his shoes match? Of course they did.
He walked out onto the terrace and felt the morning sun on his face. It was going to be a marvellous day, although it could well become a little warm at noon. He would go to the Accademia this morning, he told himself, and then afterwards he would seek out the peace of one of the quieter churches. He had always liked the church of San Giovanni Cristostomo, and perhaps he would spend an hour or so there looking at Bellini’s St Jerome with St Christopher and St Augustine. That would keep him busy until lunchtime, which he would spend in a small restaurant that he always visited when he was in Venice and where he was known to the proprietor. After lunch he could return to the hotel, sleep, and then meet the Prinzels for dinner. It would be a most satisfactory day.
The Accademia was surprisingly quiet. Von Igelfeld wandered from room to room, feasting his eyes on the great, brooding paintings. By mid-morning he was in Room Seven, standing before Lotto’s Portrait of a Young Man in his Study. Von Igelfeld gazed at the great canvas, his eye moving over the objects which made up the young man’s world – the mandolin, silent, but a reminder of the carefree pleasure of youth (he thought of Heidelberg, and of the easy fellowship of student years, never, never recaptured); the hunting horn (Als ich ein Junge war, muttered von Igelfeld); and there, on the ground, the painter had painted the fallen rose petals – his final statement on the transience of life. Von Igelfeld walked away, throwing a glance over his shoulder at the picture. Suddenly, for no reason at all, he thought of the boy in the hotel. He could play the mandolin, no doubt, and blow the hunting horn too, for that matter. But would he come back, thirty, forty years from now and look at this picture, just as von Igelfeld was now doing? Perhaps he would.
In San Giovanni Cristotomo von Igelfeld was virtually by himself. He sat on a chair near a confessional, gazing up at the ceiling, letting the stress of the city drain out of his limbs. The sun filtered in through a high window, a dusty yellow shaft, the colour of butter. Von Igelfeld closed his eyes and thought: I’m in a house of God, but who is he? Where is he, this person he had always addressed as God but who had never spoken back to him, ever. He was not sure about the existence of God, but he had always been convinced that if he did exist, he would be the God of Mediterranean Christianity, not the cold, hard God of the Northern churches. But that, perhaps, was to draw too much comfort; he might even turn out to be the God of the quantum physicists, a final point implosion, or perhaps just a single particle, a tiny event. That would be terribly disappointing – if God were to prove to be an electron.
He opened his eyes. A group had entered the church and was making its way across the nave. It was a family, and von Igelfeld noticed with a sudden shock that it was the family from the hotel. He watched cautiously as the mother pointed towards the altar. One of the girls asked a question and the mother handed her a guidebook. Then the boy in the sailor suit stepped forward and tapped at his mother’s elbow. She listened to him for a moment, and then laughed. Sulking, he moved away, walking towards von Igelfeld. Now he was in the shaft of sunlight, and for a moment he appeared to be an angel, from Giorgione’s studio, perhaps, clothed in the softness of the light, glowing with gold.
Suddenly the boy looked in von Igelfeld’s direction. When he saw the professor, he gave a slight start, but then smiled, and again, as at the breakfast table, he stared. Von Igelfeld did not know what to do. Should he acknowledge the youth, or should he ignore him? He could hardly pretend not to have seen him, and yet he had no desire to do anything which would concede to the boy that he had any right to intrude on his privacy as he was so clearly doing. What did this boy want of him after all? The whole situation was peculiar; familiar in a curious, inexplicable way; redolent of something he had read somewhere; but where?
The mother came to von Igelfeld’s rescue.
‘Tadseuz!’ she called. ‘Viens ici! Nous allons voir quelque chose de grand interêt . . .’
Tadseuz! thought von Igelfeld. So they are Polish. How very interesting! Perhaps Polish boys are particularly given to staring at people. The Poles were definitely very strange about certain things, and this might be one of them. He rose to his feet and slipped out of the church before the boy could bother him any further. His restaurant was just round the corner, and there, at least he would be safe from the unwelcome attentions of Polish boys.
‘Caro Dottor von Igelfeld!’ exclaimed the proprietor of the restaurant. ‘Here you are again! We turn our back for two or three years, and, Caspita, there you are again!’
He led von Igelfeld to a table in a quiet corner and summoned a waiter. Von Igelfeld felt a warm rush of satisfaction; he knew that to the proprietor he was no more than a client whose name had happened to lodge in the mind, but he felt as if he was amongst friends.
A bottle of chilled wine from the hills was produced and the proprietor filled a glass for himself as well as for von Igelfeld.
‘We are so glad to see you,’ he said, raising his glass in toast. ‘There are fewer people coming these days. This summer there were virtually no Germans in Italy. It was terrible!’
‘No Germans!’ Von Igelfeld was astonished at the hyper-bole, but the proprietor seemed serious.
‘They are keeping away from Venice for some reason,’ he went on. ‘They say it is something to do with the sea.’
‘Is there anything wrong with the sea?’ von Igelfeld asked, thinking of the beach at the Grand Hótel des Bains. There had been people on it, hadn’t there?
The proprietor shook his head vigorously. ‘No! No! The sea is still there. The sea is fine. No, there is no reason for the Germans not to come.’
Von Igelfeld was puzzled and would have continued the discussion, but the proprietor clearly wanted to change the subject and he drew von Igelfeld’s attentions to certain items on the menu.
‘These are very good,’ he said enthusiastically, drawing attention to the scallops. ‘Scallopini alla Marie Curie. I shall supervise their cooking personally. You will not be disappointed.’
After lunch, which lasted for over two hours, von Igelfeld walked back slowly towards the landing stage where he could board a vaporetto for the Lido. The back streets were quiet, and his footsteps rang out against the walls of the houses. Somewhere above him, in one of the windows, a woman was singing – a snatch
of song, an aria that he had heard before but could not quite place. He stopped and listened. The singing continued for a few minutes and then it faded. Now a cat called somewhere in a doorway and there was the sound of a lock being turned.
Von Igelfeld went on. At the end of the street, the pavement took a turn and ran for a few yards to a small bridge across the canal. As he reached this point, von Igelfeld noticed two men clad in white crouching down beside the water. The men were unaware of his presence and he watched them as they dipped a container of some sort into the canal. Then they took it up and decanted a small quantity of water into a bottle. One of the men shook his head, while the other wrote something in a notebook. Then they stood up, and came face to face with von Igelfeld.
‘Scusi,’ said one of the men, and the two then bustled off. Von Igelfeld noticed that the white clothes were a uniform of some sort, and that one of them had a small two-way radio with him, which crackled into life as they walked away.
He paused, standing at the edge of the canal, and looked down into the water. It was green and murky, and if one fell in, he thought, well, what then? He remembered reading about a film producer in Rome who had fallen off a houseboat into the Tiber and who had died the next day from swallowing water. Would that happen in Venice? Was the whole city surrounded by poison? And then what was it that the proprietor of the restaurant had said about the sea? Was that poisonous too?
He walked on, but the image of the two men in white stayed in his mind, and he resolved to ask the manager of the hotel all about it if he had the opportunity that evening. Then he could warn the Prinzels about swimming, if need be.
No opportunity presented itself to talk to any of the hotel staff before dinner, so the topic did not come up at the table. The Prinzels had had an exhausting day, with a trip to Murano and several circumnavigations of the city on vaporetti. Ophelia had insisted upon a gondola ride, which Prinzel had eventually agreed to, but it had not been a success as the gondolier had apparently deliberately splashed Prinzel with water, or so Prinzel alleged.
‘Did it get in your mouth?’ von Igelfeld asked anxiously, but Prinzel assured him that it had merely covered his jacket.
‘But why do you think it was deliberate?’ von Igelfeld asked.
Prinzel’s reply came quickly. ‘Because he said to me, “Why are you Germans so scared of the water these days?” and then, before I had the chance to ask him what he meant, he splashed me. It was deliberate all right!’
Von Igelfeld caught his breath. This was consistent with what the restaurant proprietor had said to him about the Germans not coming. But why should they be afraid of the water? Nobody had said anything about the sea being dangerous in any way. There were no notices; there was nothing in the newspapers. Certainly the Grand Hótel des Bains continued to offer its guests beach towels and bathing cabins. If the sea were perilous, then surely no responsible hotel would do that.
Von Igelfeld felt uneasy, but he did not wish to alarm the Prinzels unnecessarily. The following day he was to visit his one friend in Venice, Dottore Reggio Malvestiti, Librarian of the Biblioteca Filologica of the University of Venice. He knew that he could ask him about it and expect an honest answer. And at least Prinzel had not swallowed any water, so they were still safe.
Dottore Reggio Malvestiti, alerted by von Igelfeld’s telephone call from the Grand Hótel des Bains, was waiting for his visitor on the steps of the Biblioteca Filologica, a handsome sixteenth-century palazzo on the Rio dei Santi Apostoli.
‘Dear Igelfeld,’ he said, moving forward to embrace the great philologist. ‘You must come to see us more often. We miss you so!’
Von Igelfeld, always slightly taken aback by Italian emotionalism, searched for an appropriate response, but found none. He need not have worried, however; Malvestiti immediately drew him into the entrance hall of the library and launched into an impassioned address on the subject of Morati’s behaviour at the Siena Conference. Von Igelfeld listened as best he could, nodding agreement from time to time, but unable to make his way through the labyrinths of internecine Italian academic politics. Malevestiti appeared to be reaching the conclusion that Morati had at last lost his reason, and von Igelfeld signalled here his warm assent. He had always found a somewhat manic aspect to Morati’s conduct. In the past he had put this down to his being Italian, but perhaps there was more to it than that. Perhaps Malvestiti was right.
They progressed through the entrance hall and made their way along a narrow corridor to Malvestiti’s office. There Malvestiti pushed von Igelfeld into a chair (somewhat rudely, von Igelfeld thought) and continued his diatribe against Morati. Von Igelfeld, waiting for a pause, at last managed to interject his question.
‘Is there something wrong with Venice?’ he asked. ‘Please give me a direct answer. That is all I want.’
Malvestiti, about to reveal a further perfidy on Morati’s part, was stopped in his tracks.
‘Venice?’ he asked. ‘Something wrong?’
Von Igelfeld nodded. ‘Yes, Venice. I have seen men in white coats peering into the canal and taking samples of the water.’
For a few moments Malvestiti appeared to be thinking about this and said nothing. Then he sighed.
‘Alas, you are right,’ he said quietly. ‘There is a great deal wrong with Venice. The water is rising. The city is sinking. Soon we shall all be gone. Even this library . . .’ He stopped, and spread the palms of his hands in a gesture of despair. Then he continued: ‘We have already lost an entire floor of this library – our entire Slavonic collection. It is now completely underwater.’
Von Igelfeld drew in his breath sharply. Surely the books themselves could not be submerged. Malvestiti, as if anticipating his question, smiled ruefully.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It may seem ridiculous, but we just didn’t have the time to save them. Come, let me show you.’
They made their way down further corridors, lit only with weak, bare bulbs. Then, faced with a small panelled door, Malvestiti pushed it open. There was a staircase immediately beyond the door, and this descended sharply into water some two or three feet below.
‘There,’ said Malvestiti sadly. ‘Look at that.’
Von Igelfeld stared down at the water. Malvestiti had taken a torch from the wall and was shining it onto the surface of the water, just below which he could make out the beginnings of a bookshelf and the spines of books.
‘I can hardly believe it,’ he said. ‘Were you unable to do anything to save the books?’
Malvestiti looked down at the water, as if willing it to retreat.
‘It happened without our realising it,’ he said. ‘Very few people ask for those books, and months, even years can go by with nobody going downstairs. Then, suddenly, an Archimandrite working in the library asked for a work on Church Slavonic, and there we were . . . Now, if you see the mark s.a on a book’s catalogue card, you know it means that it is sub aqua. It is very sad.’
That evening von Igelfeld sat on the terrace of the Grand Hótel des Bains in sombre mood. His mind was on his meeting with Malvestiti – normally such a warm occasion– this year an encounter which left him filled with nothing but feelings of foreboding. He had realised that his friend had not in fact provided the answers to the real question which he had asked. Everybody knew that Venice was sinking – that was not the point. The real question was what was wrong with the water?
He gazed out at the sea, now becoming dark with the setting of the sun. It looked so beautiful, so maternal, and yet there must be something very wrong with it. Von Igelfeld sipped on his drink, a cold glass of beer, noticing with satisfaction that the label on the bottle said ‘Brewed in Belgium’. That must be safe; there was nothing threatening about Belgium. Ineffably dull, perhaps; but not threatening.
Taking a further sip of his beer, von Igelfeld glanced down the terrace. There was hardly a soul about yet, although the terrace would fill up as the evening wore on. People were in their rooms now, showering or bathing; preparing for the
civilised delights of the Venetian evening. In a short while, the Prinzels would appear, and they would discuss the events of the day. The prospect made von Igelfeld feel considerably more cheerful. Ophelia, in particular, could always be counted upon to raise the dullest of spirits.
He looked at the tubs of bright flowers, perched on the parapet. How good the Italians were with colours; how bold the reds, how deep the purples, and . . . what was that? Somebody had left something on one of the chairs near the parapet. It looked rather like a camera.
Von Igelfeld looked about to see if there was a waiter whose attention could be drawn to the lost item, but nobody was there. So he got up, strode across to the chair, and lifted up the small instrument. It was a very curious camera, he thought, and very heavy.
The weight made him suspicious, and so his examination continued further. He thought perhaps it was a light meter, as there was a dial across the face of the instrument, and a small hand piece that was presumably pointed in the direction of the light source. But then he saw it, neatly printed beneath the dial: Geiger Counter: Made in Switzerland.
For a moment von Igelfeld stood quite still, his thoughts in turmoil. He was no scientist, but he was well enough informed to know Geiger counters were designed to measure radiation. Who could have left it there, and why? He remembered seeing men in white coats around the hotel just before he came out on the terrace. He had assumed that they were collecting samples of water, but was this what they were doing? The thought appalled him.
Von Igelfeld returned to his table, cradling the Geiger counter in his arms, as if it might explode if he dropped it. He saw that there was an on/off switch and with his heart thumping wildly within him, he turned the switch to the on position. Nothing happened. A light glowed behind the dial, but the needle stayed quite still.
He picked up the hand piece and pointed it down at the ground. Nothing. Then he moved it towards his shoes, and for a moment the needle gave a slight twitch and von Igelfeld thought he heard a click. But the needle went back, and he breathed again. Then, hardly daring to look, he moved the hand piece up over his trouser legs and towards his stomach. Nothing. Nothing except the wild thumping of the heart. Further up, over the breast, face, hair. Nothing.
The 2 12 Pillars of Wisdom Page 10
